


Intersection

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-01
Updated: 2002-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Alex is a ghost, but Mulder is still flesh. What is there in between?





	Intersection

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Intersection

## Intersection

#### by Marcia Elena

Title: Intersection  
Author: Marcia Elena  
Email:  
Keywords: M/K, Krycek's POV  
Spoilers: The whole fucking show. Or maybe none of it. You decide. Rating: R  
Summary: Alex is a ghost, but Mulder is still flesh. What is there in between? Written for the 'eXit Files' Challenge for The Cube, May 19, 2002 Disclaimer: CC doesn't give a damn. I do. Author's notes: I've been struggling with this for a couple of days now. The solution, not surprisingly, came to me in the three hours of sleep I grabbed last night. What can I say? The boys seem to like it in my bed <eg> All weirdness should be blamed on me. 

Thanks to everyone who has put up with my incessant whining about this story. Thanks also to all the people who, in some way or another, inspired me in this: Ilya, Wildy, Raietta, Sin, Logan, BombasticVamp, Tyler...sorry if I'm forgetting anyone. And last but not least, special thanks to Satina, for support in the wee hours of the night. This one is definitely for her. 

* * *

Intersection  
by Marcia Elena 

Noun: Intersection: 

  1. A point where lines intersect 
  2. A place where one street or road crosses another 
  3. A point or set of points common to two or more geometric configurations 
  4. The set of elements common to two or more sets 
  5. A representation of common ground between theories or phenomena 
  6. The act of joining by causing your path to intersect your target's path 



* * *

I stand in the dark and watch him cry. He doesn't make a sound, and neither do I. His shoulders shake, slightly at first, then more violently as his grief deepens. 

A sob escapes him all of a sudden, too loud in the vast silence of the night. She doesn't hear him, though; she never does. If I still had a heart, it would be breaking inside me now. Even dead, I feel myself splintering, wishing I could go to him and put my arm around him, comfort him, cry with him. But I can't. Ghosts don't touch. Ghosts don't cry. 

A long time passes before he raises his head and looks at me. The room is still dark, shadows whispering at every corner; yet I can see the dull gleaming in his eyes, tears clinging to them, spiking his eyelashes and making them glisten and tremble as he wipes them away. The look on his face tells me he wants me to come closer, but before I even move he is getting up, long limbs straightening and reaching towards me. He's beside me in an instant; I listen for the catch in his breath, the hesitation in his soul...but they never come. 

I come apart a little more then, sad and elated at the same time: finally, he has grown accostumed to my presence. 

"Why, Alex?" he asks brokenly, his voice a mere whisper. "Why do you keep coming back?" 

I lower my gaze from his for a moment, too lost for words. When I was alive, that tone would always make me shiver. 

"Why do _you_?" I counter at last. 

He just nods, understanding it all too well. His hand glides up as if in slow motion, his fingers extending towards my lips until they hover near, oh so, so near... I long for the contact, yearn for his warmth...but it cannot be. Never again. 

I am dead. Starlight passes through me, shadows don't conceal me. I have no substance. And he...he has too much. He's my anchor, my mirror, the echo of every breath I ever took, the well that has swallowed every breath I will never take again. He is the fuel that made me burn. I am the fire that's consuming him whole. 

This is the way it's always been between us, beauty and tragedy intertwined; like us, they're one and the same. 

He stares at me, long and hard, his hand still inches from my lips. "Is there no way...?" 

I stare back. He knows the answer to that, and still he asks. Every single damn time. 

Hope is a terrible thing. 

I pierce him with my gaze. He sighs, starts to turn away; I resign myself, knowing I'll leave as soon as he exits the room. Until the next time he needs me. 

"No." 

The word is abrupt, and the determination I hear in it sounds much too fierce to be contained in such a short statement. But before I can understand what's happening he's turning back to me, stepping closer, closer, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me to him, _into_ him...and reality is splitting, sundering, and somehow I find myself... 

...I find myself inside him. Literally. Wearing his body as if it were my own. 

Dizziness hits me like a hammer. Mulder's knees buckle, giving way under him--under me. We fall down, pain lancing through his body as he lands in a heap on the cold, hard floor. His lungs draw a shuddering breath, and I can taste it; I laugh aloud, startled, and the unexpectedness of it in turn startles the both of us. We laugh again, this time in delight. 

We lie still for a while, each of us trying to familiarize himself with this merging, this being that is neither me nor him, our thoughts meeting and retreating in tentative waves. I feel the heaviness of his limbs, the rush of his blood, the rhythm of his heart; I _feel_ , and the sensations are so overwhelming I almost panic. But Mulder is there, he's here, with me, and I surrender the last vestiges of my resistance with nothing more than a sigh. 

Mulder's hands start moving then, pulling his tee-shirt up, touching his stomach, his chest. I feel the heat of his skin radiating underneath his finger pads; it's strange, and wonderful, and frightening...we are touching ourselves, touching each other, touching... The intimacy of it is so profound as to make every other touch in each of our remembered lives seem flat in comparison, a mockery, a lie. And now truth is pouring out of us, into us, and Mulder shudders and I cry out as his roving hands close around his cock, his balls, pumping, caressing, silk and steel and liquid fire, and it's so good, so fucking good... 

We whisper, we moan, and it's both of our voices in the same strain; both of us arching up off the floor in ecstatic gasps, both of us writhing as we make love, love, oh, Love... 

It's both of us chocking as one of Mulder's hands grips his throat, breath failing, orgasm near, and yes, it's just like death, so much like it, the same, the same; and I can feel myself start to float away from him, and I try to stay, he tries to hold me, but I'm going fast, and I can't, and he can't, can't stay, can't breathe, can't, can't... 

And with my--his?--our last breath I plead, "Come with me..." 

And he does. 

* * *

The End

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If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Marcia Elena 


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